


Honest work

by ellamason



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8191580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamason/pseuds/ellamason
Summary: This was not what the bishop intended.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> Very quick hooker AU for Esteliel. Thank you so much for all your modding brilliance!
> 
> Content note: I don't know whether I'd call this dubcon or not, but at _best_ there are a lot of characters doing incredibly skeevy things.

“This is the one.” A slurring voice, only a few feet away. The clodding sound of boots tramping against a frozen street. The local police had been enjoying the holiday, it seemed. “The blessed whore, they call him.”

Valjean raised his head. He had come to recognise these two men. Both were officers stationed in Montreuil. The younger had not been in the town for long. Most of the younger policemen regarded the place as a stop on a longer journey. Somewhere to be endured for a short while before the real work began. He glanced at the more heavy-set man -- a client who found his way to Valjean’s corner more often than not on these drunken evenings. He caught Valjean’s gaze and his eyes darted away. A hand went to his pocket.

“Come along then, Madeleine. We’ve some business for you.” The older officer was not the type to try and cheat his whores, but Valjean had learned early that there was no certainty in this work. The jangling of coins in a plump palm was better proof. Valjean nodded at that, rising to his feet and motioning for the men to follow.

Should he have learned this guard’s name? He had learned his face. He knew that the man’s prick was short and fat and that he enjoyed bringing new recruits to Valjean. It was a steady stream of business, and occasionally the young men even returned. Although they always came back alone.

There was a small room kept free for him at the back of his apartment. As he led the two men through the corridors, groans and thuds thrummed through the walls. He bowed his head but would not close his ears to the sounds. _This was not what the bishop intended_ , the thought bubbled up, insistent. He crushed it back down.

The shabby bed had not been made, but Valjean doubted there would be any complaints on that score. He turned to face the men, watching as the older guard positioned himself with his back to the closed door. The younger one’s eyes flickered between his fellow guard and Valjean -- like most of the boys the officer favoured, he was slim and finely muscled, with sharp dark eyes. 

It was an old routine by now, and one Valjean knew better than he would like. Casting his eyes downwards, he sunk to his knees in the middle of the room.

“So, what do we do with him?” The young man’s voice was hesitant, but not uncertain. It was a distinction Valjean had picked up over the years.

“What would you like to do with him?” The returning drawl was familiar. Valjean kept his eyes lowered, forcing his breath through his nose in slow, insistent measures. “Do you want to fuck him? He’d probably be grateful to have a powerful young thing like you make use of him.” A pause. “It’s on me, of course.”

Both pairs of eyes were on him, and when Valjean dared a glance, he could see that the young man’s prick was hardening beneath his trousers. The young man took a step towards him, then froze. He glanced at his companion.

“And you?”

“I’ll have the other end,” the guard said lightly. “Or perhaps I’ll just watch. I’ve always wanted to see him recite a rosary with a cock up his arse. You could do that, couldn’t you, Madeleine?”

Could he? Valjean was not certain he could do such a thing. But the policeman opened his palm again, revealing enough to pay for food and ointments and a new blanket for young Claudine. How could he refuse that kind of money? Valjean glanced back at the young officer. Would he even wish to play a part in such a blasphemous act?

The young man took another step forward. He cast a wary glance at his companion, then back at Valjean’s supplicant form. He was already unfastening his trousers. “And supposing I want his mouth?”

Valjean exhaled a silent breath of relief. _Please_ , he thought silently. _Please._

“It’s your first evening out,” the officer replied, with a good natured tone that Valjean had heard many times before. “He’ll make sure you have a good time. And we can always come back.”

The young man seemed to hesitate. Then, with one last glance at his companion, he took a swaying step forward and pulled his prick free. It seemed clean enough -- that was one advantage of the older guard’s preferences. “Go on then,” he said, grabbing at Valjean’s hair and yanking him forward. His grip was strong but not violent, so Valjean crawled forward and opened up. The young officer pushed forward into his mouth, pulling Valjean down onto the stiff flesh. 

Valjean lowered his eyes and set to work. The man was young and intoxicated. He would not take long to find completion. The grip on his hair was harsh but not necessarily cruel. If the thrusts of the hips were too sharp, that was more likely down to inexperience than ill intent. Valjean hollowed his cheeks, focusing on the task at hand. Somewhere above him, he heard a sound that might have been a sigh. And then, from across the room, an echoing groan.

“You look good,” the older guard’s voice was low. Footsteps approached from behind him and the grip on his hair tightened. Decent work was hard to come by, he reminded himself. This, at least, was not dishonest. “Didn’t I tell you you’d like this?”

Valjean kept his eyes down. This was none of his business. The hand in his hair closed into a fist. The young man’s breath shuddered. And then there was a second, larger hand in his hair.

“He likes you,” the older guard was saying. The younger man was thrusting quicker now, breath coming in soft pants. “He doesn’t get handsome young men like you most days. Just us old hands with our peculiar tastes.”

One of the hands that was fisted in his hair released unexpectedly. The other pulled him backwards. When he looked up, the young officer’s eyes were wide. His lips, pink and swollen, were parted in confusion. His cock was welling and his hips jerked in the direction of Valjean’s mouth.

The older guard’s hand came down to run a thumb down Valjean’s cheek. He looked down at Valjean, then back up at his young companion. When he spoke, his voice was slow, as though he were choosing his words. “You like my good-looking young friend, don’t you, Madeleine?”

Valjean nodded, knowing how this would play out. The older officer had been assigned to Montreuil for years now. Longer than Valjean had worked there. This young man would come and go, and more would come. And the man would give Valjean his money, and this would be expected of him.

“You want him in your mouth, don’t you?”

“Yes.” It was honest work, even if the work itself involved some falsehoods. “Please, Monsieur.”

The hand stroked down his cheek again, the thumb teasing at his lips. “You see?” The officer said, his voice clumsily coaxing. His other hand reached forward to find the young man’s prick. “He wants this. Why don’t you give it to him?”

The young officer’s hips swayed forward, his prick touching Valjean’s lips. And when Valjean opened for it and leaned forward, his lips brushed against the older officer’s finger and thumb. The larger man groaned, and his hand tightened around the base of the prick in Valjean’s mouth as the younger officer reached around to grip Valjean’s hair again.

“Madeleine,” the young man murmured, as though trying to place the name. And he breathed the false name again, his prick stiffening in Valjean’s mouth as his breath echoed through the room. And this was not what the bishop had wanted for Valjean, for his mouth to be sold to men in a cold room in a strange town. But the money would be of service and his intentions were honest even if his work was not and his body was wasted. The thrusting was growing erratic and the two men’s breath was deafening in the room and he would earn enough from this one night to make a change. It would help. It would--

The door slammed open. The prick in his mouth was yanked back. Cold air swirled around him as the policemen pulled away and he was left on his knees as the older officer stepped around and in front of him, refastening trousers and speaking too loudly while the younger one stumbled back against a wall, sagging backwards and laughing horribly.

“You must understand,” the older policeman was saying, “it’s his first night out. He’s only been stationed here a few--”

“Enough.” The sharp tone of the new voice was enough to make Valjean’s head jerk up. And when he saw the man who had just entered the room, he dropped his head again, heart pounding. How could that voice have followed him all this way? But it was unmistakable. Just two syllables had been enough to cast his soul back to the depths of Toulon. He shuddered.

The man crossed the room in a few short strides. His tall shadow loomed in the corner of Valjean’s vision. “Pull yourself together, Officer Defour. I reviewed your record this morning and you seem a promising recruit. But be assured: This incident will be reported to the prefect. If you wish to make a name for yourself, stay well clear of places like this.”

The young man’s voice was low, “yes, inspector. It won’t happen again, I swear it.”

“Go along, then, both of you.” The all-too-familiar voice continued. “And Defour -- I’d advise you to find better friends than this old pervert. He’ll only drag you down with him.” A pause. “Yes, Baudry, I’ve seen your files as well. A sorry kind, you are. Get along, then. Go and sleep off the wine.”

A clatter of feet and a rustling of cloth and then the officers were gone, the door slamming behind them. And then they were alone.

Valjean’s breath came hard and fast. He fixed his eyes on the bare floorboards. Was there any hope of escape? Surely not at this moment. When he dared to glance upwards, he was certain that he knew the man who stood before him. Javert -- for it must have been Javert -- was staring at the small crucifix affixed to his wall. Valjean turned his eyes back to the floor.

“Idiots,” Javert snarled. “Consorting with filth. No better than the thieves in the street. Bad enough to have scum like Baudry in the prefecture, but he has to rope the young ones in with him. Well, I won’t have it. He may have got away with it before, but not while I’m here. Oh no. They’ll learn some discipline soon enough.” He exhaled sharply. “And you. You run this place, don’t you? The sainted whore or some such nonsense?”

Valjean kept his head low. His mouth was still tingling from the prick that had been pulled away from him, and his chest hammered. Was there a chance he could distract Javert? Surely his voice would give him away. Surely there was nothing to do but--

He reached forward, blindly seeking the fastenings of Javert’s trousers.

“What in the devil?” Javert’s large hand closed around his wrist, giving it a vicious twist. Valjean groaned but did not try to pull free. He kept his head low, face contorted with the pain that radiated from his wrist. But Javert stepped forward and then, dropping to one knee, grasped Valjean’s jaw and tilted his face upward.

It was undeniably Javert. Even years and worlds away from the bagne, the guard was unchanged. His mouth was twisted with a fury Valjean had not seen in years.

“You _dare_ to lay a hand on me. Do you believe you can bribe me? Or has this town truly grown so corrupt that you imagine an inspector would wish for your-- for the likes of you?”

Those dark eyes bored into Valjean’s, and Valjean turned his face away in despair. Would there be time to distribute the last of the silver before judgement fell upon him? He could turn over the rooms to Audrey -- she would manage them well enough. There would still be shelter for as long as the money lasted. 

And for Valjean, there would be the chain again, this time for life. What small life he had built for himself here would be gone, and even his reputation -- cruel joke that it amounted to -- would be swept away. He closed his eyes, furious with his own helplessness at Javert’s hands.

And then he was released. “Sainted indeed,” Javert snarled, shoving him backwards. His eyes were fixed somewhere behind Valjean’s head. He stood, a little too quickly. “Listen to me: I would _never_ \--” He drew a shaking breath. Then: “Neither I nor any one of my men will no longer pay you so much as a sous for your services. Nor anyone who works here. Ply your trade if you must, but no officer of mine will be tainted by the likes of you. And if I catch you up to any mischief, be certain that you will be punished. This mockery of righteousness will not be tolerated for long, believe me.”

Valjean, who could believe nothing of what he had just heard, could only nod, his eyes fixed on the bare floor. His heart was tripping, terrified indeed but -- for now, at least -- still free. He glanced up, just in time to see Javert cast one last look at him, frown, and then leave.

When Valjean had gathered enough of his wits, he crawled to the mattress in the corner and stared for a long time at the far wall with its heavy set door. Some of officer Baudry’s coins were scattered on the floor, glinting in the moonlight. Later, Valjean decided, when he found the strength, he would cross the room and gather up the coins. It seemed he would remain in the town after all, for the time being.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this super quickly and now I am questioning the in-character reality of the universe a lot! My advice is not to examine it too closely because I feel like it could unravel with even slightly too much attention.


End file.
